


i could hold you for a million years

by mallory



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, lots o' hugs, some drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallory/pseuds/mallory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver Queen gives the best hugs. Inspired by Stephen’s tweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i could hold you for a million years

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Make You Feel My Love' by Adele (Bob Dylan cover).
> 
> Can be seen as within the same ‘verse as [i wanna live with you (if we only live once)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1017708).

Oliver Queen gives the best hugs. You wouldn’t know it just looking at him, but trust Felicity. He’s always warm, even when it’s minus a billion degrees and snowing outside. He’s firm—he looks after his body; working out and eating right (most of the time. Big Belly Burger's burgers are awesome.)—but not so firm that it’s like hugging a brick wall. He knows just the right amount to squeeze so that it feels good. (That came out wrong.) Sometimes he strokes her hair and it makes her want to fall asleep. Other times, he places his chin on the top of her head and she feels tiny, but that’s okay because in his arms she’ll always feel safe and protected.

It’s her favourite thing in the world. Well, okay, second favourite. Technology will always be first in her geeky heart. Although it doesn’t make her feel loved, it does make her feel warm sometimes. (When she has her laptop on her lap and it heats up. (She has no idea why she admitted that.))

* * *

It was supposed to be a simple covert op, recon mission. She was just supposed to dress up, look pretty and gather intel on Harper Musso’s suppliers. It all went to crap when one of his body guards found her snooping through Mr. Musso’s private office downstairs. Years of experience as the Arrow’s eyes and ears has taught her a thing or two in self-defence. Of course, it didn’t hurt when her boys insisted she learn more advanced training than a simple kick in the nuts.

She sprained her wrist warding off the big guy’s attacks, but she got the thing they needed. That’s all that matters, right?

Who is she kidding. Oliver’s going to be so mad.

“Felicity.”

She grimaces, but it’s too late to back out now. He heard her come in.

She pokes her head around the tall medicine cabinet and waves sheepishly with her good hand. “Hey.”

“Come here.”

Frowning, because she’s not a dog, she stands her ground. When his crossed arms fall with a sigh, she relents and ruefully draws nearer. As soon as she’s within arms’ length, he holds out his hand and she places her bad wrist in it.

She can practically see the steam shooting out of his ears the longer he inspects her wrist. “I told you not to go.” His voice mirrored his expression: stiff, emotionless; all in all, not good.

She looks down. “I know.”

“I told you it was going to be dangerous.” His tone of voice surprises her enough to slide her gaze to his face. He’s angry now. The nerve.

“I know,” she replies more forcefully, chagrined.

“I _told_ you you were going to get hurt.”

“ _I know_!” She wrenches her hand back, ignoring the shooting pain from the briskness of the action. “I knew what I was getting into when I volunteered. It’s _my_ life, _my_ choice. And you don’t have any right to control what I do or do not do!”

His frown deepens, only it isn’t infuriated anymore. The fire in his eyes and the tautness of his mouth gone, and in its place a devastatingly mournful pair of blues studies her with his mouth the opposite of her favourite twist. “You’re my girlfriend and I love you, Felicity. Your choices don’t only affect your life; what about mine? What would I do if you weren’t here? What would I do if it was because of me and this life I brought upon you that caused you harm?”

She tips her head to the side, never seeing it like that before.

“I’m sorry if you feel like I’m controlling you. But I only want what’s best for you.”

“You’re right.” She plays with the brace Digg put on her earlier, smiling repentantly at him. “I guess… I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m not as vital to this team as you two because you’re actually out there and putting yourself in danger to fight crime and save others… While I’m here in the safety of the Arrowcave on my comfy chair with a cup of hot coffee.”

“Is that what you think? Felicity, you’re the eyes, ears and brains behind what we do. Without you, Digg and I would be running around the city like headless chickens wondering how, where and which bad guy to get. You may not be a first line of defence private, but you’re the sergeant telling the soldiers the plan, mapping out the course of the war and predicting the enemy’s next attack. You’re just as much a part of this team as we are. If not, even more important.”

“I think you’re overestimating my authority over the team, but… Thank you,” she simpers tentatively. Biting her lip, she regards him quickly before taking the few steps necessary to close the distance that’s keeping him so far away from her. She wraps her arms around his neck in a hug, but when he doesn't reciprocate and she begins to feel silly hanging off of him like this, she pulls her head back. “You can hug me back, you know.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” As soon as she utters it, a smile stretching her face, he enfolds her into his arms and hides his face into the corner of her neck, taking a deep breath.

“I was so worried,” he mumbles.

“I know.” Pressing her cheek against his, she whispers a hair away from his ear, “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“I’m sorry too.”

She pulls away, delighted. “Was that a joke, mister?”

“I guess that was,” he shrugs, a crooked smile pulling at his face.

“I’m rubbing off on you.” She looks heavenwards when she hears it again in her head and mutters under her breath, “Three… two… one…”

He only laughs quietly and kisses her nose.

Later that night when they’re lying in bed, Felicity grumbles as she spins around to find a different position _again_.

“Felicity,” Oliver murmurs sleepily.

“I’m sorry. I can’t get comfortable, this wrist thing is so annoying.”

“Lay on your back.”

“It’s lie.” At Oliver’s look, she apologises again and complies, complaining as she does it. “I don’t even like lying on my back.”

“I know. But just try it.”

She blows a strand of hair from her face and stares blankly at the ceiling, her good hand on her stomach, her bad wrist on the pillow Oliver put there earlier. “Now what?”

Oliver shuffles forward and places his head above her shoulder, half of his body resting on her own and pressing her into the bed. His arm drapes over her middle, pulling her side into his chest as he envelops her, and he nuzzles her cheek.

“Oh. This is comfortable,” she admits.

“Good. Now go to sleep.”

* * *

Exhausted, Felicity drops onto Oliver’s sweaty body after her arms give out. “Wow,” she breathes. “Just… wow. Seriously, wow.”

He chortles, gratification filtering in with the lovely sound.

“‘M I hurting you?”

“No.”

“Good. ‘Cause I don’ wanna move.”

His fingers drag lightly along her spine, tickling her and causing an involuntary wiggle. He groans, the sound much louder with her ear pressed against his clavicle. “Again?” he suggests.

“Nooo,” she moans. “Sleepy.”

“Don’t squirm like that.”

She kisses a pectoral because it's right there and she feels like it, and shuts her eyes. “Don’t tickle me like that,” she retorts back idly.

She rises with the deep breath he takes. Too content to move or care, she digs her head into the crook of his neck and pushes her arms into his side, caging him to the bed. His arms climb up from her butt to wrap around the small of her back, pushing her down on him tighter, and her breath puffs out as a result of the pressure.

“I love you.”

“Mhm,” she hums, pecking his neck. "Love you."

* * *

“ _Felicity_ .”

Groaning, she rolls out of bed, making sure her blanket is securely wrapped around her, and shuffles her way into the living room, where Oliver is searching frantically for something. “What,” she croaks.

His head whips around and his body visibly deflates. “Why are you still here? I got to my desk this morning before realising that you weren’t at yours, and then I tried calling you but you didn’t answer your phone. You  _always_  answer your phone. And it’s not like you to be late to work. Or late to anything.”

“Digg took it away,” she pouts. “He wouldn’t let me out of the house.”

She’s pretty sure his eyes squint as they scan her. (She’s currently without her glasses.) Her blanket starts slipping and she shrugs it back over her shoulders. “You sound weird.”

“I have a cold,” she whines miserably, but it’s a terrible mistake because it sounds unattractive and aggravates her throat, causing her third coughing fit of the day, and it’s only 9:30 AM.

His brows furrow in concern and he takes a step closer. “Go back to bed. Do you want something to eat? Soup? Some tea?”

He ushers her back into bed, and she feels silly when he starts tucking her in. “Don’t you have a big corporate company to run?”

“They can do without me for a day.”

“I don’t think—What are you doing?” She frowns when he reaches for the remote to her flat screen and surfs through the channels.

“Looking for some cartoons. That’s what my mother used to do for me when I had a cold.”

She smiles, because it’s sweet and very thoughtful of him.

“Are you cold?” he fusses as soon as he’s found a channel he’s satisfied with. “Do you need more blankets?”

“No. But I am a little hungry.”

“Okay. Any preference? Tomato soup, chicken soup?”

“I’ve always had a bowl of matzo ball soup when I had a cold.”

Oliver’s left brow crinkles. “Oh. To be honest, I only know how to make butternut squash soup.”

She laughs lightly, but that conjures up another coughing fit. She sits forward as she covers her mouth. He comes over to sit and starts rubbing her back.

When she’s finished and all that’s left is a throbbing throat and herself breathless (and not in a fun way), she sits back against the propped up pillow and peers miserably at him. “Soup?” he offers.

She only nods.

It doesn’t take long to make, apparently, and before she knows it (she’s been drifting in and out of sleep, the noise from the TV dragging her back to consciousness every now and then.) Oliver’s back with a bowl full of warm and yummy butternut squash soup. He offers to feed her, but she scrunches her nose and takes the spoon herself. He settles in next to her and turns his attention to Spongebob rocking out to a campfire song.

When she’s finished, she snuggles back under the covers until just her eyes are poking out. She blinks heavily as she watches him watch his cartoons. He’s dressed in his suit, which is all rumpled. From the five o’clock shadow he’s sporting, it’s safe to assume he hadn’t shaved this morning, and the bruise he received last night from patrolling is peeping out from under his collar.

His glances down at her without moving his head before he lowers the volume the closest it will go without muting. “Do you want anything else? Some Advil?”

“No, I just want you.” She pushes her blanket down to her hips with her arm before wiggling her fingers greedily. “I want a hug.”

He smiles before rolling closer (and wrinkling his suit more) and encircling his arms around her. “Go to sleep,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against her forehead.

“‘Kay,” she hums contently. “But you need to leave now because I’ll contaminate you.” Even as she utters that drowsily, she snuggles into his chest and holds onto him tighter.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He places another kiss on her person before he shuffles off the bed. She lifts her heavy head to frown at him, but becomes pacified when he only goes as far as her coffee-coloured paramount lounge chair to rid of his suit jacket.

Her eyes flutter as she surveys his stripping down to his boxer briefs. She’s sure her flushed cheeks aren’t only because of her cold. "Now come back over here and hold me."

He delivers a chopy chortle and crawls under the blanket. She’s about to tell him to stay on top so the chances of him getting sick as well aren’t as much, but he just shushes her before she can open her mouth. He lifts the blanket and motions with his head to come closer, and after she’s nestled in his arms, her exhausted body wins over the fight of consciousness. The last thing she remembers is the feel of Oliver’s lips against her eyelids before he whispers that he loves her.

* * *

As soon as Felicity steps foot in the Arrowcave, she feels tension radiating off of Oliver and Digg as they stare each other down.

“What happened?” she inquires cautiously.

Immediately, both start talking, drowning each other’s words as they make ridiculous hand motions that portray their annoyance. Their faces are pinched with exasperation as they struggle not to start yelling. They look almost constipated.

She thinks she makes out ‘money’, ‘tequila’ and maybe ‘card’ (or is it ‘shard’?) before they both end with a simultaneous and loud, “A cheater!”

“Wow, um. Okay. Who’s fault was it?” she asks, confused.

“His,” they chorus.

“Does it  _really_  matter wh—”

“Yes!”

“But is this going to affect—”

“Yes!”

Arms akimbo, Felicity blows out a breath and studies the injuries on their faces. Oliver’s sporting a nasty looking bruise along the right of his jaw and his left eyebrow’s cut. Diggle’s lips don’t look too good and she imagines it hurts moving it, and is his left ear bleeding? “Who punched whom first?”

“He did!”

That produces another flurry of blending cries of irritation, which nearly results in physicality before, fortunately, she has the good sense to intervene and separate the two with a few choice words of which she isn’t exactly proud.

“Say you’re sorry,” she reprimands when she’s done berating them like they’re children. (Honestly.)

“Sorry,” they grumble.

“Good. Now hug it out.” She folds her arms.  _She’s enjoying this power trip a little too much, she thinks._

“Felicity—”

“Noope,” she interrupts. “Hug.” She motions the two with both hands, squinting and pushes her palms closer, as if the force of her hands will move them without even at all touching them.

They mutter something to each other before stiffly chaining their bulky arms around the other with awkward back patting.

“Now isn’t that better?” she coos. “Nothin’ like a bromance hug won’t fix.”

“That’s it.”

“Get in here.”

Yelping as they each grab for an arm and yank her between the two, she finds herself in a boy sandwich. Oliver interlocks their fingers and smirks down at her as his other hand creeps its way to the small of her back. On her other side, Digg has an arm around her shoulders while he playfully pinches her cheek. “Huh. I’ve had a dream about this once.” Laughter sounds before she realises what she’s said. “ _Not_  that kind!”

* * *

“… You’ll never guess what I baked for you earlier,” she grins cheekily before shoving a forkful of her chicken salad.

Oliver smiles at her from across her dining table, the candle and moon light team up to illuminate his face, producing a certain effervescence from his blue eyes, and highlights the little dimple on his left cheek as his smile grows.

She shyly averts her eyes down to her plate, blinking discretely a couple of times from the discomfort of her contacts. Then, a startlingly loud bang pierces her ears, causing a reflexive slam of her eyes shut and head ducking before cold, bony hands tear her away from her seat and she flies across the living room. She briefly registers Oliver’s cry of her name, but that’s quickly drowned out by her own screams when a body pushes her to the floor that's covered in shattered glass.

When she opens her eyes, a sickly thin redhead glares down at her.

“Hey!” Oliver grunts.

Gasping when the woman pulls her up with the lock of hair she grasped onto, Felicity is forced to face Oliver, who’s pointing the mini crossbow he keeps strapped to his ankle at them.

“Oli—” she manages, but chokes on the rest of his name when the redhead’s arm snakes its way around her neck and constricts enough to silence her.

“Let her go,” he growls slowly.

“No,” the woman cries hysterically, and Felicity winces at the pitch and volume.

“Felicity,” Oliver says, his voice softer. “Are you okay?”

“ _Don’t_ talk to her!”

His jaw twitches and his frown deepens. “Who are you?”

“Oliver, you know who I am. I robbed those jewellery stores for you, like you told me to. I tried to get your attention, didn’t you realise? Boys can be so dumb. I love you, Oliver. This girl is standing in the way of us being together.”

Felicity whimpers as she feels a sharp, cold blade thrust against the side of her neck. She grips the arm around her neck and attempts a weak yank to lighten her hold. The front of the woman's body is pushing against the back of hers and it’s making her extremely sick. She can feel all the bony ridges of her ribs and her pelvis digging painfully into the bottom of her spinal cord.

Oliver’s grip on the crossbow visibly tightens. “Drop the knife, Hannah.”

“Yes,” she whispers, voice full of hope and delusion. “You _do_ know me. I knew it; you love me too.”

“Drop the knife and let her go.”

“No!” she bellows, digging her knife further into her skin. “She ruined my life. She deserves to die!”

“Hannah, listen to me. I want to help you, okay? Just let Felicity go.”

“Why do you say my name like that? And then her name like _that_?” she questions, her tone suddenly confused, stripped of the fury only moments ago.

“Because I love her,” Oliver answers steadily.

Felicity wheezes when Hannah finally lets go, but then feels a force that sends her tumbling forward as she’s pushed away. Oliver’s quick to catch her and she falls right into the safety of his arms as he balances her before dragging her away from Hannah.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Oliver’s hand roams around her arm, neck, cheek as she shakes her head dazedly.

“I-I’m fine.”

A wretched sob breaks her out of her stupor and Felicity whips her head around to Hannah, who has a gun aimed at Oliver. Gasping, Felicity attempts to move herself in front of him, but he shoves her behind him as he takes a step forward. She grabs onto his arm and pulls him back, feeling her throat close up and her heart protest against her ribcage.  _What is he doing!?_

“Oliver,” Felicity whispers urgently. He squeezes her hip with the hand that’s holding her behind him, and she digs her nails into the arm, trying to pull him back.

“Hannah,” Oliver warns.

She licks her lips, her crazy eyes trained on Oliver. “If you don’t love me, then you’re not allowed to love anyone else,” she trembles.

If you ask Felicity what happens in the next seven seconds, she cannot, for the life of her, tell you without breaking down and sobbing until her throat goes raw. Everything happens in slow motion: the gunshot ringing heavily in her ears, her screams for Oliver as she’s pushed to land on the safety of the couch to the side, Hannah’s quivering form falling to the floor slowly as her wide gaze turns to her in shock, an arrow pierced through her chest, and blood. A lot of blood.

Felicity blinks. And blinks again. Then everything in her mind flashes back to the seven seconds and plays it in real time for her brain to catch up.

“Oliver,” she shouts, crawling to the end of the couch to where his body lies next to it.

He winces as he looks up at her. “I’m okay.”

“I feel so bad for her,” Felicity murmurs moments later on her bed. “She was in the psych ward almost all her life.”

Oliver hurries around her bedroom. “She hurt and killed a lot of people, Felicity.”

She continues staring at her floor length mirror. She looks horrible: hair tangled with bits of glass, eyes slightly swollen, cuts on her forehead and cheekbones, lips cracked from her constant chewing, her clothes awry with her dinner staining her blouse, and her neck… Some dried blood from where Hannah had pierced her skin, and what looks like the world’s largest hickey. “But she was sick; she didn’t know what she was doing.”

“I know,” Oliver whispers.

“And now she’s dead.” She wraps her arms around her middle, feeling remorse for this woman who didn’t have a good life. The news mentioned her escape from the Glades Memorial Hospital’s psych ward, but further research on her part found that she had reported to be abused by her mother when she was ten. Not only did the officials disregard her statement, but they agreed with her mother that she should be put in a hospital where she could get help for her "illness". She was in there for nine years before her mother died and she was released, but Felicity guesses all that time in there on her own must have driven her to insanity because she killed three kids in the park before going back in.

“Sometimes life isn’t fair.”

She nods, chewing her lip as she stares herself down in the mirror again. She lets her poor lip go when it sinks in that she’s doing it again.

“Are you okay?”

Felicity looks up and attempts a smile to ease the worried itch between Oliver’s eyebrows. She knows it’s futile because she’s not very good at hiding her emotions and Oliver can read her like she can codes. But she does it anyway, because she’s alive, he’s alive. “Yeah.” She swipes her nose with her finger as she sniffles and cranes her neck to look out into her living room, where Hannah’s blood pools around her lifeless form. Hannah Gillan is dead. In her apartment. “It’s just… how am I supposed to get these blood stains out of my rug?” she quips hollowly.

The last few minutes runs through her head again and sends an uncomfortable shiver down her spin and her eyes water at the thought of what _could have_ happened. Her breathing sutters.

“C’mere.”

Before she’s even moved a muscle, however, Oliver takes a large step toward her and engulfs her up into his body with strong arms. She leans into him and pushes her face into his chest so she’s not tempted to look at the corpse. His hand glides into her hair before his lips press against her forehead. She curls her fingers into the front of his shirt, concentrating on the soothing rub of his palm against her back, the fingers running smoothly through her hair to pick out the shards.

“Let me look at you.”

He gently tilts her head and she blinks her eyes open. She observes him as his pale blue eyes scan her face. He has a cut on his cheek from the fragmented window glass, but the blood’s already dried, smeared across his cheek. The corner of his mouth keeps twitching, like he’s trying to smile. Her eyes flutter shut as his thumb strokes soothingly across the place where the knife was, prohibiting her from further inspecting his face.

She starts slightly when she feels pressure against her lips, but relaxes when his hot breath puffs against her philtral dimple. She kisses him back, tasting blood. _Is that hers?_ Both his hands slide around her to cup her cheeks before his kisses become more desperate, and she struggles to catch up with the intensity and speed of his lips.

A breeze filters into her apartment and she shivers, breaking the kiss. She slides her shaky hands around his neck and sniffs one more time, pressing herself closer to his comfort and warmth. His forehead falls tenderly against hers as his arms link around her back, pulling her so she’s flush against him from head to toe.

“We’re staying at my place.” His voice calms her still jumpy nerves, and she nods slightly, his head hindering her from moving much. She drops her head to rest against his collarbone and finds her suitcase packed by her bed.

“Okay.” Her arms tighten around his neck when his muscles shift as he begins to move. “Just a little longer.”

* * *

“Oliver!” Felicity bellows into the house.

She jumps when a whisper tickles her ear from behind. “What?” His breath feels tingly against her neck and generates a shiver that rakes her body from head to toe. He chuckles, a hand tugging softly the ends of her ponytail.

“Oh, you’re here.” She’s about to spin around to face him when his arms grab onto the balcony railings and boxes her. He pushes her until she’s half leaning against the railings, half leaning against him. “Wait, how did you get out? Did you scale the building again? Oliver, I told you—”

“I used the door from the bedroom,” he laughs.

“Oh. Okay, good.” Her hands find his on their search for support and she grips the tops of them before she pushes her fingers to rest between each of his, like jigsaw puzzles. She’s fascinated by the difference in sizes for a moment until he shifts her attention, his head dipping into her neck to place a sweet kiss. Her own head falls back to rest on his broad shoulder and rediscovers the pretty sky that the setting sun paints in its wake, the reds fading into oranges fading into yellows; a swirl of warm colours that parallels the feeling of being safely wrapped up in Oliver. Her eyes falls back on the very man making her feel all the fuzzies and happys (it’s not a word, but just go with it because that’s what she’s feeling right now). She studies his profile in the dimming light, grinning at the dimple in his cheek, scrunching her face as she ponders his slightly crooked nose.  _Did he break it recently?_

“Did you want something?” he asks mirthfully, twisting his head to stare back at her.

“Nope.” She turns back to the sky and follows the flock of birds flying in the shape of an arrow.

“You called for me,” he continues.

“… I don’t remember why.” She shrugs, her shoulder blades brushing against his pectorals in the process. “The sunset is so pretty it’s distracting.”

His nose prods against her cheek. “Are you sure that’s not why you called, to show me?”

“Mm… pretty sure.”

He makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like he doesn’t believe her but otherwise stays quiet.

They remain still out on the balcony until the sun disappears behind the horizon to greet the people on the other side of the world, only moving to one of the outdoor lounge chairs some time between the colours of orange and purple-ish black.

She adjusts herself from between Oliver’s legs because her butt is starting to numb, accidentally knocking one of his forearms resting on his propped up knees. “Don’t go,” he murmurs, arms dropping from their position to pull her back from the top of her chest.

Shaking her head, she reaches up to run her hands across his forearms, tracing his emerging goosebumps. She drops her neck to kiss the spot next to where her hands came to rest, feeling his smile against her cheek when she tilts her head back to nestle against his shoulder.

A cool breeze rushes by and disturbs the trees around their house, the leaves rattling softly in disgruntlement. She shivers, feeling her own goosebumps rise. “You’re cold,” he comments, tightening his hold on her, sharing his heat. “Want to go inside?”

“No, I want to stay here a little longer.” She shoves her hands into the beginning of the sleeves inside his jacket and curls her fingers over his biceps, and bends her legs closer to her body, cozying up. Like a cocoon… Only, cocoons are more encompassing. She supposes it's more like a taco. But that’s not a very pretty simile.

* * *

Oliver Queen gives the best hugs. He's warm, firm, and extremely skilled at the art of hugging. She loves getting them after a long and hard day at Queens Consolidated because it lets her know that he's hers, that he'll be leaving with her. Or after he comes home from patrolling or a mission, her hands running over his warm skin the only source of reassurance and relief that he's here, alive, home. She loves getting them after a fun day where all they did was joke and laugh and accomplished absolutely nothing important. She loves getting them after hard days when she feels like nothing is going right and everybody hates her. His 'just because' hugs, his 'I'm sorry' hugs, 'I love you' hugs. She loves them because they make her feel safe; they remind her that she's lucky to have someone; they calm her down; but most of all, she loves them because they're from Oliver.

There’s nothing more magical than feeling the warmth of his skin, his steady breathing that has her own naturally slowing so they can breathe in sync, his heart pumping out blood to a rhythm only they understand, the strong and steady arms that she knows will always catch her. There's nothing more magical, Felicity believes, than holding the person she loves.

**Author's Note:**

> All criticisms are appreciated :)


End file.
